


remember those walls i built? well, baby, they’re tumbling down

by impulsemomentum



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Fluff and Humor, I mean, M/M, Oblivious!Nico, like a lot of plot not enough porn, like stupid oblivious nico, pierre is stupidly in love and too scared to say it, the future dc frenchies have a lot of fun fucking w pierre, whats the opposite of pwp?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 12:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16576397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulsemomentum/pseuds/impulsemomentum
Summary: Nico kneels carefully between the petals, and picks up a cream-coloured card.“Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.” He reads, “Yours, Ugo.”He looks up at Pierre, frowning. “Ugo? Like Ugo Humbert?”—Or, where everyone gets tired of Pierre’s stupid pining, and takes matters into their own hands.





	remember those walls i built? well, baby, they’re tumbling down

**Author's Note:**

> I DID IT this was supposed to be a 5+1 but i am a terrible writer and can’t actually write things so here u go
> 
> this is dedicated to joy and cedric i love u both LOADS nd it’s 1am so i’m sorry i’m not making much sense rn and this sucks
> 
> as always these r real people w real lives and I Assume Nothing
> 
> title is from (yes i know) halo - beyoncé

Defeat stings less when it comes with a friend’s success, Pierre supposes, putting his tennis bag back in order in the locker room. He can faintly hear the shower running, Ugo having arrived later after his winner duties. He waits patiently on a bench, idly scrolling through his phone. Nico’s sent a sad face emoji, and Pierre grins, sending back a selfie of him pouting.

 

 _Sorry my singles career isn’t shaping up_ , he texts, _guess you’ll have to stick with me in dubs_.

 

Nico’s response is instant, and Pierre can’t help but snort at the words that appear on his screen.

 

_don’t talk to me unless you’re top 50 x_

 

 _you wound me :(_ , Pierre sends back, _don’t want me as your partner anymore?_

 

Nico sends him back a selfie of him rolling his eyes because he’s, like, 60 years old, and doesn't know that his phone comes with new emojis when it updates, but Pierre smiles fondly at the photo anyway.

 

Of all the people to be hopelessly attracted to, he supposes, Nico’s really the worst. It’s not that he’s a horrible person, no, he’s actually the type to open doors and pull out chairs, but he’s just so...oblivious. Pierre’s taken them out to dimly lit restaurants and teasingly nudged his foot under the table way too many times before he’d finally given up, acknowledging that maybe Nico just really didn’t reciprocate his feelings. It wasn’t until he saw Stan sneak his number into Nico’s hand and winking at him, however, that he finally realised that Nico was just perhaps way too innocent for a 36-year-old. Nico just turned to Pierre with a confused look, holding out the piece of paper as if it was a foreign object.

 

“I already have his number though.” Nico had frowned at it. “Has he got a new phone or something?”

 

The faint sounds of water hitting the floor shut off suddenly, and Pierre looks up, jolted out of his thoughts.

 

Moments later, a still-damp Ugo emerges, absentmindedly towelling off his hair. He looks up, sees Pierre waiting on the bench, and grins as a greeting. “Still here?”

 

“Yeah.” Pierre stands up, grinning back. “Just wanted to congratulate you on making top 100.”

 

Ugo’s smile turns a little sheepish. “Thanks dude. You’ll make top 50 soon! And anyways, you’ll always have dubs with Nico.”

 

“Though Nico might be considering a new partner, with all the singles I’m playing.” Pierre jokes drily, though he frowns when he sees Ugo suddenly perk up.

 

“Really?” He says, eyes lighting up. “Do you know if he likes roses or lilies better?”

 

Pierre just kind of stares at him for a moment.

 

“Uh,” He blinks. “Roses?”

 

“Dooooooope,” Ugo gives him a thumbs up. “You’re the best, man. He’s into younger guys, right? Like with you and stuff.” He claps Pierre’s shoulder and wanders off, pulling up what appears to be flower shop websites, to Pierre’s horror, on his phone.

 

Left alone in the locker room, Pierre just kind of sits dumbly, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.

 

He can’t decide which is going to be harder, trying not to punch Ugo in the face if he actually does buy the damn flowers, or trying not to laugh at Nico’s reaction.

 

The first one is, as he finds out when Nico opens his locker in Bercy and a bouquet of roses tumbles out, scattering petals all across the floor. Nico just kind of looks at it, dumbfounded.

 

Pierre sees red.

 

Quite literally, considering that there are really a lot of flowers everywhere.

 

———

 

Nico kneels carefully between the petals, and picks up a cream-coloured card.

 

“Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.” He reads, “Yours, Ugo.”

 

He looks up at Pierre, frowning. “Ugo? Like Ugo Humbert?”

 

Pierre clears his throat to speak, but all that comes out is a growl. He tries again. “Yeah. I think...I joked about something and he took it too serious.”

 

“What could you possibly joke about that could lead to this?” Nico says, gobsmacked. “Ugo’s, like, 16. Does he think I’m looking for a son or what? Who gives roses to someone they’re looking for as a father figure?”

 

“I...” Pierre runs a weary hand down his face. “No, Nico, I think he, uh, he’s looking for a partner.”

 

“Partner?” Nico raises an eyebrow. “But I’m with you.”

 

Pierre almost chokes at the weight of those words, so innocently spoken. “No, I think...never mind. You should probably tell him you’re not interested, anyhow.”

 

“Okay.” Nico gazes thoughtfully down at the card. “I’d certainly play doubles with him if he asked, but I don’t think we’re at the same tournaments much. I’ll let him know.”

 

Later, that night, Pierre is sitting in bed, listening to Nico’s soft snuffles next to him when his phone starts buzzing insistently.

 

“Allô?” He picks up cautiously, reading the caller ID. “Ugo?”

 

“Hey!!” The younger man’s excited voice comes through. “Thanks for working on Nico for me! He texted me and told me he’d be down to play doubles whenever we’re in the same place.”

 

“...” Pierre resists the urge to hang up and throw the phone across the room.

 

“Pierre?”

 

The aforementioned man grits his teeth. “Look, Ugo. I was joking when I said that in Ortisei, alright? Nico’s my partner. So back off.”

 

Of all the responses he expected, Ugo bursting out laughing was definitely not one of them. In fact, he’s laughing so hard Pierre can barely decipher his words. “Oh my god, finally, hahahah, I really thought the roses would trigger an instant response but I guess this call will do, hahahahah-”

 

“What do you mean response?” Pierre demands softly, conscious of Nico’s tendency to wake up at every little thing.

 

“Oh man,” Ugo’s almost wheezing. “We’ve been trying for, like, years to get you and him together. Did you finally pull your head out of your ass and just push him to the bed? Actually, never mind, I don’t want to know, Nico’s cute and all but he really is just too old for me-”

 

“No, we’re not together! Nico’s not interested in me, not that it would matter to you!” Pierre, appropriately scandalised, hisses into his cupped hand. “And what do you mean by we?”

 

He can practically hear Ugo’s eyes rolling. “Oh my God, Pierre. No offence but you’re pretty dumb, Jesus. I was about to call off the dogs but I guess we’ll have to keep going until you crack. Okay, bonne nuit!” Before Pierre can yell at him further, he hangs up.

 

Pierre really contemplates breaking down the door to Ugo’s room and demanding answers, but as he shifts against his sheets, Nico stirs awake.

 

“Pierre?” He says drowsily, voice roughened from sleep. “What’s wrong? I heard your voice.”

 

Pierre’s throat suddenly dries up. “It’s nothing, Nico. Don’t worry about it, bonne nuit.”

 

“Mmk.” Pierre watches Nico turns around and promptly fall back asleep.

 

Man, he’s fucked.

 

———

 

The horrifying thing is, it doesn’t stop there. Pierre’s not sure who else is involved in this crazy scheme, but it seems to be _everybody_. Almost everyone they know who even remotely speaks French has come up with some way to attract Nico’s attention, and at this point Pierre’s sure a vein is going to pop out of his head.

 

Vasek, he’d expected, because it’s not like Nico doesn’t know him, and so he’d sat in silence and fumed as Nico carried out an animated conversation about hockey, of all things. Vasek leaves with a teasing, lingering hand on Nico’s shoulder, and an exaggerated wink at Pierre.

 

Corentin, he had to admit, was a bit more of a surprise. Pierre’s never talked to him much,personally, but he knows Nico’s taken a liking to him after the US Open match. He was much...bolder, than Vasek, simply coming up to Nico in the locker room and handing him his hotel room key, smirking as he left. Nico’s response, at least, makes Pierre less want to murder the entire pool of potential Davis Cup nominees.

 

“Does he want me to go to his room?” Nico raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think I want to play that football game again. I’m pretty sure I scored an own goal last time.”

 

Pierre simply shrugs, and very deliberately doesn’t open his mouth, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself from saying “Jesus Christ Nico they’re all trying to get you to fuck me so please just take a hint and fucking kiss me okay?”

 

The real kicker comes in London, after they’ve wrapped up the opening ceremony. Pierre is playing Candy Crush on his phone, whilst Nico methodically undoes his tie and hangs up both their suits, when a knock startles them both. It’s certainly getting late, and none of the people who knows where their room was would want something to do with them at this time.

 

The person at the door knocks once more, politely, then falls silent. Pierre looks at Nico, who simply raises an eyebrow, and sighs, getting up from the comfortable chair to unlatch the door.

 

He opens it a crack, and freezes.

 

“Hello.” Roger Federer says in German, smiling. “May I talk to Nicolas?”

 

“I-” Pierre doesn’t even realise he’s switched to German also. “Are you...Is this...Are you serious-”

 

“Pierre?” Nico pokes his head out from the bedroom. “What’s going on? Are you speaking German? Who is it?”

 

“Uh.” Pierre looks at him. Looks back at the door. Looks at Nico again. Swings his head back to where fucking Roger Federer is standing, not a single hair out of place at way-too-late o’clock at night. He’s even wearing a Uniqlo robe, for God’s sake. He didn’t even know they made those. “It’s nothing, Nico. Don’t worry about it.” He realises he’s said it in German on accident, and by the time he opens his mouth to try again, at least in a language Nico understands, it’s already too late.

 

“Just who are you talking to this late at night?” Nico demands, entering into the suite living room. “You have a German girlfriend I didn’t know about? Should I crash with Marcelo - oh wait he has Sascha - maybe I can ask-”

 

He abruptly trails off, because he has reached the door, and takes in Pierre, awkwardly holding open a crack in the door as Roger peeks through inquisitively. He gently pushes the door, and Pierre doesn’t even struggle, just stands aside and tries not to swallow his own tongue.

 

“Roger?” Nico asks, in French, because of course they know each other like that, frowning as he pulls him in for a hug and exchanges kisses on both cheeks. “What do you need this late at night?”

 

“Ah, well,” Roger’s smiling that smile again. Pierre feels like he might faint because how can one person be so perfect and so infuriating at the same time. “I was hoping I could. Talk to you. In private.”

 

“Now?” Nico’s frown deepens. “Can this not wait until tomorrow? You have my number, right? I can give it to you again if you’d like.”

 

“I think this conversation would be better if we were, ah,” Roger stands closer, a hand loosely curled around Nico’s bicep. “In person.”

 

Pierre reaches his breaking point.

 

“Okay, thank you Roger, but I think we can continue this tomorrow, maybe when we’re all more awake?” He physically pushes himself in between the two, and grips Roger’s arm (the left one, he’s not dumb enough to risk accidentally fucking up his forehand or something and getting banned from tennis for the rest of his life), pushing him towards the open door insistently. “Thank you for coming, good night.”

 

Roger, thank God, doesn’t even struggle, only quirks his mouth up in a smirk, because he knows exactly what he’s doing and that he’s accomplished his task. As Pierre closes the door on him, he clasps his shoulder warmly, and murmurs, back in German, “Good luck. Take care of him or you won’t like what happens to you.”

 

Pierre shuts the door on him, latches it, and stands with his forehead against the cool wood. He contemplates just staying like this forever; maybe if he stays in the same position for long enough he’ll go into a trance, and when he wakes none of this will have happened.

 

Unfortunately, the other individual in the room has other plans for him.

 

“Pierre, what the fuck?” Pierre turns around wearily to see Nico ask, angry and confused. “Do you not like Roger or something? What was that?”

 

“I-” Pierre throws his hands up in the air, and just gives up. “Have you really not noticed? Any of it?”

 

“What?” Nico asks, anger dissipating in the wake of his confusion. “Noticed what?”

 

“Oh my God,” Pierre murmurs, and then straightens. “Really, Nico? Ugo? Corentin? Vasek? Roger? Fucking? Federer? Are you serious?”

 

“I don’t know what you mean, Pierre.” Nico’s back to frowning. “Are you insinuating that they have some ulterior motive for talking to me? It’s not like any of them need more money and I’ve made it clear I won’t be their full time doubles partners.”

 

“No,” Pierre gulps, steps closer to Nico. He feels faintly like throwing up, and hopes Nico doesn’t notice. “No, they do have an ulterior motive, but it’s not for them.”

 

“Pierre?” Nico’s face is very close, and his eyes are very blue. Pierre might actually vomit.

 

“They’ve been trying,” Pierre clears his throat, closes his eyes. “I’ve been trying, too, for maybe the last four years. I love you, Nico. I want to be with you. They were trying to make me admit that, and now they have.”

 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Pierre hesitantly reopens his eyes, and sees Nico, smiling softly at him. His eyes are almost twinkling (no Pierre don’t think of Dumbledore this is a really bad time), and he says, quietly. “Well. You could have just told me, no?”

 

“I really tried.” Pierre says, letting a bitter chuckle escape him. “Those dinners, those bars, the dim rooms. I’ve been trying. I was just too scared to tell you. And you never caught on to anyone else, so I thought how would I be any different?”

 

“Of course you’re different, Pierrot.” Nico steps closer. Pierre can smell his shampoo. “Because I love you too. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I really don’t notice things like that, huh?” He murmurs, amused, as he brings up a hand to softly cup Pierre’s cheek. Pierre is trembling maybe just a little bit.

 

“May I,” Pierre swallows around the lump in his throat. “May I kiss you?”

 

“By all means.” Nico smiles, and closes the gap between their mouths.

 

Pierre tries to catalogue it all at first, tries to savour the moment he’s been waiting for since the Australian Open in 2015. He takes in the slight scratchiness of his stubble, the softness of his lips, the faint taste of mint from toothpaste. His hands find their way under Nico’s shirt and curl around his waist, and he marvels at the smooth flesh, transferring heat to his palms. Nico opens his mouth further, and Pierre suddenly loses all ability to store information as he is engulfed in the sensation of being so close to Nico, finally, after so many years.

 

When they finally break apart, gasping for air, Pierre says, voice hoarse. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to do that.”

 

“Well, what are you waiting for then?” Nico smirks, and Pierre feels blood rush straight down to his groin. “Let’s keep going.” He takes Pierre’s hand, and leads him into the bedroom.

 

Of course, as their previous status quo was Totally Straight And Just Doubles Partners, they’d booked two singles, but Nico’s bed seemed big enough to fit two, not that Pierre really cares much at this point. He feels like he could come right now if Nico told him to.

 

They fall onto the bed, tangled in each other as they try to somehow remove their clothing and touch as many areas of skin as possible. Nico gets his shirt off first, and then they’re both a little distracted by Pierre attaching his mouth to a nipple. Nico hisses when Pierre swirls his tongue around the nub, and a hand tightens convulsively when he nips at it gently.

 

“Fuck, Pierre.” He breathes out, head dropping slightly. “We need to get naked. Now.”

 

“Whatever you say, Nico.” Pierre grins at him breathlessly, and immediately pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly on the floor. “How’s this?”

 

Pierre’s certainly not ashamed of his body; he knows full well the rigorous training he has undergone as a tennis player certainly done favours for it. But, when he sees Nico’s eyes trace the lines of his body, absentmindedly biting at his bottom lip, he feels an urge to cover himself, like Nico’s eyes are somehow seeing through him, right through who he is.

 

“You’re beautiful.” Nico murmurs, as if sensing his thoughts. He places a gentle kiss on a collarbone, and traces butterfly kisses down, until he reaches the trail of dark hair, disappearing into desperately tenting sweatpants. “Let’s get these off.”

 

Pierre lifts his hips, not capable of much except obedience at this point. Nico’s breath hitches when he sees Pierre’s cock, purple and leaking furiously at the tip. “You’ve been waiting a while, huh?” Nico looks at him, and Pierre almost chokes.

 

“Just a little.” Pierre’s voice might squeak a little bit, but he’s pretty sure he managed to get the words out, in the right order, in one language.

 

“Well,” Nico smirks, sending liquid heat straight down Pierre’s body, and positions himself between his thighs. “Who am I to deny you then?”

 

When Nico finally takes the head of his cock between his lips, Pierre’s hips twitch convulsively, and Nico grips them hard enough to bruise. Pierre entertains the thought of waking tomorrow to find handprints on his hips, and lets out a broken moan.

 

“Nico, fuck, fuck, oh my god Nico,” He knows he’s rambling, but there’s not a lot he can say when he’s got Nicolas Mahut, yes, the Nicolas Mahut on his hands and knees, head bobbing up and down between his thighs as the length of Pierre’s cock is buried in his mouth.

 

Pierre’s cock slides out of Nico’s mouth with a filthy pop, and Pierre almost comes right there and then. “You like this?” Nico’s voice is rough, and his lips are wet with saliva and precome. “Do you want me to get you off like this? I don’t want to hurt you with anything more.”

 

“Oh my-Jesus fuck, don’t say things like that, you’re gonna tempt me too much.” Pierre throws an arm haphazardly across his face, genuinely contemplating the pros and cons of showing up to practice tomorrow limping. “We can-fuck okay, we can do that later, just this now please Nico-”

 

“Understood.” That god damn smirk is back again, not that Pierre can see it anymore after Nico leans down again, and in one fell swoop takes about three-quarters of Pierre’s dick in.

 

He wraps a hand around the rest, and tugs as his tongue scrapes against the underside of his cock. Pierre feels the calluses tugging against the sensitive skin combined with the pressure from the tongue, and barely chokes out, “Nico fuck I’m going to-”

 

Nico, holy shit, Nico just takes it, swallowing around Pierre’s dick until it’s spent, and slowly lifting himself off, raising his head to smile at Pierre. His lips are slick with come, but Pierre doesn’t even give a shit at this point. He pulls Nico down, and tangles his hand into his hair, seeking his lips desperately.

 

“Fuck, Nico, that was-” When they break apart, Pierre pants out, a little in disbelief. “Holy shit. Where’d you learn that from?”

 

Nico drops his head to his chest, and Pierre feels vibrations travel through his body from the older man’s chuckles. “I may be clueless, but I’m not an idiot, Pierre. Stan is...ah, quite straightforward, shall we say.”

 

“Holy shit.” Pierre says, again, because holy shit. Holy. Shit.

 

“Holy shit, indeed.” Nico says, rolling off of Pierre and sitting up, levelling a grin at him as he runs a hand through his own dishevelled hair.

 

Pierre frowns, propping himself up on his elbows. “Do you need anything? I can. Ah, do the same?” He says, a bit awkwardly. He doesn’t feel like he’s capable of anything right now except flopping back in bed, to be quite honest, but he does feel pretty bad.

 

“It’s alright, I’ve got it.” Nico quirks a grin. “You’re free to watch, though. I’ll be in the bathroom when you’re capable of moving.”

 

He presses a kiss to Pierre’s temple, full of promise, then slides off the bed and pads off, Pierre staring in disbelief at the retreating figure.

 

Needless to say, Pierre becomes perfectly capable of moving.

 

———

 

**Author's Note:**

> hi please encourage me to create more shitposts like this one thanks love u all goodnight everyone x
> 
> bonus: what happens at breakfast probably (definitely), courtesy of joy (ily x)
> 
> rafa, who is somehow in london: hi nico //proceeds to drape himself over his chair  
> pierre: what. the Fuck. w h a t  
> roger, popping up behind them looking immaculate as always: oh it’s ok rafa i sorted them out, let’s go  
> rafa: ok roger //sunshine smile// bye nico bye pierre it was nice seeing u  
> pierre:  
> nico:  
> pierre:  
> nico:  
> nico: bye rafa


End file.
